


With All Your Strength

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Minor Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you broke his nose,” Aramis purrs around Porthos’ chuckle.  He whispers it out, his voice drunk on desire, “Take me right here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	With All Your Strength

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> And here I am yet again finishing out one last wip I had sitting on my hard drive, inspired by a prompt from JL. This is based off the scene in 2x02, where Porthos is just randomly fighting some guy in a tavern... and considering that fantastic eyesex that happened during 1x08 training, can't help but wonder what the reaction would be if Aramis were the one watching instead of the king. :'|

Aramis can’t breathe with watching Porthos. 

Porthos’ grin is almost feral and he whistles out once, cheerful, as one hand gestures in a tempting crook of his finger, inviting his opponent closer, indicating just where his opponent should hit. He’s like a wolf, eyes glinting in the dim light of the tavern, his own laughter lost amongst the din but for the fact that Aramis knows to listen for it. 

Aramis watches, panting with it, as Porthos twists and weaves, his lips sliding up into that predatory smile as his opponent takes a swipe and misses. His wide grin is pleasure and unguarded – and it suits him, perfectly, that he should have the devil’s luck in this. He walks in easy, long strides, his hands loose and relaxed until the other man is unfortunate enough to dart closer. 

Aramis hears the way the laugh drops down into a growl, the way his hands flex and reach up, shoving the man away, shoving him down to the ground He’s hunched over, on the balls of his feet, and he grins wickedly as he lifts a finger and taps it against his own cheek – an invitation, a bait. His opponent rises to his feet with a strangled shout and dives towards him and Porthos is there to dig his shoulder hard into his chest, to pick him up easily and throw him over his shoulder like he was made of nothing, despite being just as large as Porthos himself. 

And then Porthos catches Aramis’ eye and his expression is smoky and darkened, and the predatory smirk is back, curving up crookedly in the way that Aramis loves. And Aramis knows he’s mimicking the gesture, that his hand has dropped down to rest innocently over his thigh, legs splayed open where he sits on his chair, his free hand tugging absently at one of the braces on his shoulder, his coat shrugged off and hanging over the back of his chair. It’s stifling in here, and the eye contact only makes it worse. 

The wine he’s drunk has apparently gone to his head, because he would normally never allow himself to be quite this blatant, but his gaze his heated as he watches the way Porthos dodges back easily, deflects any hits coming his way, as easily as breathing – and with his eyes caught on Aramis’. He catches his opponent’s wrist and twists it, kicks him down and pins him to the ground and Aramis’ breath hitches, lips parting and licking at his bottom lip in a pointed swipe. 

It takes only one more flip, one more slam of a knee to a stomach before Porthos is declared the victor and his grin is steely and vivid in the dark tavern as he drinks down his wine, as the other patrons raise their glasses in praise, and Aramis flexes his hand against his thigh, shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 

When Porthos ambles over towards him, lax and breathless from his own assault and his own victory, Aramis rises from the chair and lets him sit down comfortably. He knows his gaze is as heated as the rest of him and he drapes one arm over Porthos’ shoulders, allows himself to shift closer than he ever would under any other circumstances, if he wasn’t high on Porthos’ victory and made loose by the wine. 

“I think you broke his nose,” Aramis purrs around Porthos’ chuckle. He whispers it out, his voice drunk on desire, “Take me right here.” 

He knows he does not imagine the deliberate slowness with which Porthos turns his head and looks at him, and Aramis drags his eyes down along the juncture of his throat and his jaw, the way his lips part, the way his pupils are blown wide as he looks at Aramis. 

Aramis tilts his chin down, looks at him through his lashes for a moment, lets him feel the full force of the heat in his gaze, breathing out slowly, breathless still, his hands on his shoulders, fingertips brushing along the curve of his neck. It is blatant, it is senseless – but he can’t think of anything beyond Porthos. Strong and brutal and fearless – utterly amazing to watch, always. 

And the fact that he wasn’t even trying. 

Aramis can’t breathe through it all – awed by the way Porthos can weave so effortlessly, crouch down low against his toes, wheel around and destroy anyone in his path. He’s high on his adrenaline on his victory, and still the touch of Porthos’ hand against his wrist is almost gentle and Aramis hisses out through his desire. 

“You threw a man larger than me over your shoulder,” he whispers, voice hot and wisping against the shell of Porthos’ ear as he leans in close, hands sliding down blatantly against his chest, feels the hot swell of Porthos’ chest as he inhales sharply around Aramis’ words and scent. “I know you want to have me. Do it, Porthos. Take me.” 

Porthos grins at him, a sharp line of contrast to the gentle curve of his shoulders and throat. He’s bared open and Aramis shifts his hand up to rest against the base of his throat, with no force or weight to it. 

“Just fuck me right here across the table,” Aramis whispers, voice dropping low so there’s no risk of anyone else overhearing. His thumb traces at the tiny dip of Porthos’ collarbone. There’s a staccato rhythm to his own pulse and he licks his lips again, voice heated with promise. He smiles at him, slow and hot and completely unnecessary for demonstrating his own desire – he knows there’s no doubt that Porthos understands. 

Aramis loves this most of all – the moment when they waver, when they’re anything but subtle, anything but careful – and there’s a thrill and a danger to it that makes them both light up. He loves the moment where Porthos looks like he’ll give in and slam him down against the table but will ultimately pull back, laugh, tug him along out of the tavern and back towards the garrison, where they can fall into bed together, where Porthos will fuck him into the mattress, high on his own victories and strength, doesn’t hold back and isn’t afraid to be rougher with Aramis – and Aramis loving every moment of it, arching and keening and admiring the way Porthos moves above him. He loves it when Porthos turns his strength on him – loves that for all Porthos’ power, he’ll never truly hurt him.

It’s what Porthos is doing now – standing with laughter and heat in his eyes, fetching Aramis’ coat and jerking his head back towards the door in both invitation and command. And Aramis can only ever obey Porthos – can only ever melt into Porthos. And they’re tumbling out into the streets, drunk on wine and drunk on the electric heat of fighting. They stumble and laugh and Aramis feels fearless and strong simply through the force of Porthos’ own fearlessness and strength. 

They don’t make it fully back to the garrison before they’re falling into side-alley, Aramis pressing full-body to Porthos and kissing him, licks at his lips until he can taste the phantom tang of blood there from an almost-punch from Porthos’ opponent earlier. There’s a hand in his hair and Porthos backs him up to the wall, his hand cupping the base of his neck. 

Aramis keens out and deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue past Porthos’ lips and using one hand to drag their hips together. He rocks his hips forward, slides his knee up between Porthos’ legs and applies just enough pressure to get Porthos to grunt, to get those strong hands to tighten around him, heated and forceful. They’re sweaty and drunk and happy and Aramis suckles on his lips and tongue and bites at his lips and licks at his teeth and whines out his name in a desperate attempt for friction, to get fucked right up against this wall like it’s simple, like they’re not out in the open, like they aren’t in danger of being caught – and that danger has always been enough for Aramis to get drunk with it, to grin against Porthos’ insistent kisses and cry out for more. 

“Come on,” Porthos growls when Aramis starts tugging at the laces of his breeches – he’s grinning, feral again, biting down hard at Aramis’ lips until they swell up beneath the bruising kisses. “You wanted me to fuck you, yeah? Better behind closed doors. You can be as loud as you please.” 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums out, squirms close, rocks his hips forward just so Porthos can fully feel just how much he wants to be fucked, just how badly he’s wanted him since the moment Porthos ducked away from a punch and easily won his brawl. “Mmm,” he moans again when Porthos bites down hard against the line of his jaw, enough that he knows there’ll be a bruise blooming there come the morning. “Porthos…” 

“Come on,” Porthos whispers against his ear, nibbles at his earlobe before stepping back. Aramis whimpers for the loss of that hot press of Porthos’ body, and is tugged along easily through the dark streets of Paris, distant sounds of clinking glass and merriment interspersed behind many closed doors, light cracking out through the doorways. He’s not paying attention, frankly – he’s looking only at Porthos, breathless with watching him, breathless with wanting him. 

When they get to Aramis’ quarters Porthos is on him in seconds, taking him up in his arms. Aramis barks out a surprised laugh and then goes limp in his hold as Porthos flings him over his shoulder and then shoves him down onto the bed. He’s pushing at him until Aramis is sitting with his back against the wall his bed presses against, his legs wide in an exaggerated sprawl, in invitation as he kicks off his boots. Aramis purrs out a soft murmur of his name as Porthos crawls up over him. Porthos, strong and awe-inspiring, is also a notoriously dirty fighter and Aramis knows he won’t win this, knows to not even try. Porthos grabs at him and Aramis is at his mercy. It isn’t long before Aramis is writhing beneath him, Porthos hold on him heavy and ruthless. 

It isn’t long before Porthos is pressing down against him, Aramis’ wrists wrapped up in one of Porthos’ large hands and the other pressing down hard against Aramis’ chest. He straddles Aramis’ thighs and Aramis rocks his hips up blatantly, lets his cock slide up against Porthos’. 

“Fuck me,” Aramis begs, knows he’s begging and can’t care. “Fuck me, Porthos. Fuck me—”

Porthos’ hold on his chin is sharp and precise, strong and lovely in the way he cups under his jaw and slides down, fingers pinching just slightly against his throat, choking him off at the jugular. Aramis’ breath hitches and his spine arches as he seizes up with the sudden force of his desire, his breath hissing out in a breathless whimper. He rocks his hips up. He parts his lips and he whines out. 

“Please,” he whinges, high and pitched and breathless, pupils blown wide as he stares up at Porthos – and just this is enough to make him want to come. 

Porthos, his strong and perfect Porthos, who is always so gentle with him. To have the sheer force of his strength directed at him – that’s what makes Aramis so breathless with want after the bar brawls. It’s the way Porthos gets so high off his own strength, his own adrenaline and hormones, the way he always presses close to him, always takes him, always leaves him feeling it for days afterward, squirming on his horse trying to get comfortable and knowing why Porthos glances at him over his shoulder with that lilting smile, a secret passing between the two of them. 

He can’t breathe, and he stares up at Porthos, mouth opened and silent – pliant and obedient to whatever Porthos wants. 

“Should I fuck you like this?” Porthos whispers, leaning in and kissing him. His teeth drag down hard over his bottom lip and Aramis would gasp if he could breathe. 

Aramis can’t hold back the pleased whine as Porthos flexes his hand against his throat, presses down enough that the slightest twist of his wrist would be too much – he could pass out like this, he could never breathe right again, never speak right again – but he knows that Porthos will never truly hurt him. He rocks his hips up desperately, searching for that friction and drag of their cocks together through their clothes. His hands flex under Porthos’ powerful grip around his wrists, aches to reach out and strip them both, to worship Porthos from head to cock to toes. He whines again. 

Porthos chuckles, warm and low, and drags his hand away from his throat, thumb pressing to the hollow beneath his chin and tilting his face up. They kiss – sloppy and needy and unhurried but for their own desire. Aramis keens a little, mewls out his name and licks into his mouth, desperate for more, more, always more. 

“Love me like this, do you?” Porthos murmurs, and he kisses at the corner of his mouth as he slips his fingers into Aramis’ mouth and Aramis moans happily and suckles, curls his tongue around those thick, broad fingers and Porthos allows it for a moment before he presses the fingers in deeper, almost enough to choke him. Aramis breathes out heavily through his nose, tries to swallow. Porthos shifts closer so that their foreheads nearly press together, noses brushing, and Porthos’ voice is a low growl as he looks at him, “You can never get enough of me, can you? You’re so greedy.” 

Aramis whines out in approval, in agreement – yes, yes, he’s so greedy for it, all he wants is Porthos, all he can think about is Porthos. He closes his eyes and shivers with it, with the thought of being fucked over a table, fucked up against the wall to an alleyway, fucked down into the bed like this, Porthos’ fingers in his mouth. 

But Porthos does draw them back, though, but only so that they can move in a frenzy to get their clothes off. There’s fumbling and elbows in too many places and really it should make Aramis giggle, but he’s frenzied to get naked, to feel Porthos against him, to have only Porthos filling him and making him blind with desire. He whines out incoherent words, little moans and huffs of air but his hands are quick and steadied as he strips Porthos down. He almost gets an elbow to the face for his troubles but at the same time it just reminds him of Porthos’ steadied aggression in the tavern and it makes Aramis’ cock twitch even before Porthos can get a hand on him. 

Porthos strokes over his cock enough for Aramis to cry out and then the hand is gone, fingers stroking over his beard and tilting his chin up so he can kiss him again, sloppy and demanding – Aramis can feel that thread of possession and it’s enough to get him to moan into the kiss again. 

Before he can get his hands on Porthos, before he can demonstrate to Porthos just how good he feels, Porthos is shoving him back down, pinning him down, hand against his throat as the other drags nails sharply down his chest and stomach, cups his balls and slides up over his cock. Aramis cries out with what little breath he still has, and Porthos presses his hand tighter against his throat. It’s weighted but controlled but it leaves Aramis feeling utterly helpless, completely at his mercy. 

There are little whines, little keening moans stuck in his throat, pressed there by Porthos’ hand but Aramis can only squirm, can only wriggle his hips and thrust up helplessly against the other hand around his cock, stroking harshly, thumb pressing against his cockhead. Aramis wants to beg but the words are caught in his throat, caught beneath the steady power of Porthos’ hand. 

“Porthos,” he manages to choke out in a breathy moan. “Please…” 

“You want me to fuck you properly?” Porthos whispers against his mouth as he kisses him and Aramis can hardly respond for the lack of air, for the need to breathe and to whine out his praise against Porthos’ mouth. He kisses him back, sloppy and imprecise. Porthos slides the hand on his throat up, cups the bottom of his jaw and forces his head up to deepen the kiss before pressing it back down against the curve of his adam’s apple. Aramis sobs out garbled, breathless praise that Porthos swallows down between their kisses. 

He lessens his hold, though, enough for Aramis to gasp out a quiet, “ _Yes_.” 

“Should I stop what I’m doing?” Porthos whispers as he bites at his lip.

“ _No_ ,” Aramis moans, and his eyes are wide and heavy with desire, pleading to him. 

“Thought so,” Porthos agrees and there’s another delicious stroke to his cock before the hand is away, groping at the table beside Aramis’ bedside. Aramis whines out and Porthos shushes him. “You’re so pretty like this – and so patient even when you’re greedy. Come on. Get this open for me.” 

Aramis fumbles, trying to get his limbs to obey and grasps at the little corked bottle that Porthos presents to him. Aramis rocks his hips up so that their cocks do slide together and this time it’s Porthos who moans loudly. Aramis grins at him, huffs out a delighted moan and uncorks the bottle for him, tips it forward to slick up Porthos’ fingers before returning the cork to the bottle, protective and careful the liquid doesn’t spill out. 

“You doing good?” Porthos asks as he tightens the hand on his throat and Aramis’ eyelids flutter a bit as he gasps out a small huffing _yes_ that makes Porthos’ eyes glow with warmth, that love and gentleness impossible to hide even when they’re drunk like this, even when Porthos could so easily kill him, snap him in two, hurt him – but they both know that’ll never happen. 

“Please,” Aramis manages to gasp out. 

“Want me to spread you open?” Porthos whispers, and he sounds just as breathless as Aramis feels, ducks his head and bites and licks at the slope of his neck, moving his hand enough to bite out marks against him, his thumb pressing against his windpipe. 

Aramis arches slightly and Porthos moves his hand entirely so Aramis can breathe. He sucks in rattling breaths, feeling high with the desire of filling his lungs and he feels like he’ll come just from that brief release and relief. He squirms and pants out, “Please – I need you. I love you. Please, please…” 

“Me too, me too,” Porthos agrees, breathless and gentled despite the harshness of his hold. “I’ve got you – you’re alright.”

Aramis whines, squirming and needy. 

Porthos bites at his chin and returns his hand to his throat once he’s sure that Aramis has heaved in enough breath. Aramis can feel the curve of his grin – feral and predatory again – as he whispers out against the line of his jaw, “You’re so greedy. You want me inside you that badly? Fingers and cock?” 

“Mmm,” Aramis moans around the hand against his throat. He chokes on it when he can’t suck in enough breath again, his chest concaved beneath Porthos’. 

Then there’s a hand pressing to his ass and pressing in and Aramis makes a breathless sound, still managing to make words, still managing to breathe. Porthos tuts as Aramis tries to buck his hips up more, to get more friction but Porthos presses his knees down against his thighs to keep him from making any small thrusts. 

“You’re still so loud even with this,” Porthos sighs out but he doesn’t sound angry, only pleased, only so breathless and heaving, only dripping with his own honeyed desire and Aramis _keens_. Porthos’ fingers are spreading him open, pumping into him with abandon and he’s squirming and trying to thrust up, trying to breathe. 

And then Porthos’ other hand lifts, Porthos’ fingers press into his mouth again, far back enough that Aramis can’t swallow, can’t speak, can’t do anything but feel the heavy press of fingers against his tongue, moving towards the back of his throat. Porthos rises up further on his knees, spreads his fingers wide to prepare him for his cock. 

“You’re just like this because of a fight,” Porthos whispers as he leans down and presses their foreheads together, thumb brushing heavily over his bottom lip, thrusting his fingers deep into his mouth in time to the fingers thrusting deep into his ass and Aramis whines out, can’t speak for want of room for his tongue, so instead just tries to convey how deeply he needs Porthos, how much he loves him, through his eyes. Porthos bites down and nibbles at his lip. “You love watching me like that. You were blatant with it – could see you getting hard halfway across the tavern.” 

Aramis whines and makes a choked off sobbing sound in reply, hips circling in a desperate search for friction. Aramis feels frantic, weighted down – he needs it, he needs this, he needs _Porthos._

“Maybe I should have fucked you out on that table,” Porthos whispers and removes his fingers from his mouth in order to kiss him deeply, moaning. “Everyone could have seen how you get for it – how much you love to see me like that.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis gasps out in a whine. He can breathe properly again and he heaves in shuddering breaths, squirming restlessly beneath Porthos, trying to rock down hard against his fingers, trying to spread himself open and wider, trying to coax him to fuck him properly. “ _Porthos_ , God, you should see yourself – you should _see._ The way you look, how you look at me—”

Porthos removes his hand from inside him, sudden and swift, and Aramis cuts off with a whining sob as Porthos’ hand wraps around his cock and makes Aramis’ vision spark at the edges as he feels Porthos press up against him – this is what he’s wanted for so long, this is what he’s wanted since the first moment a punch connected. 

“Fuck,” Aramis gasps out. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

Porthos just grins at him, edged out with desire, and he’s not even inside of Aramis yet and Aramis already knows he’s _gone_ , already knows he’ll always be gone for Porthos when he’s like this, when Aramis himself is like this – high on his desire, drunk with love and lust, breathless with the need to see Porthos’ relentless strength. 

“I love it when you’re like this,” Porthos admits as he rocks his hips forward, pressing his cock into him inch by inch. Aramis whines out and thrashes around, lifts his hips up to make the movement easier for Porthos. Porthos tugs on his lower jaw and bites a harsh kiss against his mouth, sucking on his upper lip and then deepening it. Aramis whines out and bites back at those kisses, rolls his hips up and shouts into the kiss when Porthos thrusts down harshly against him.

“Yes,” Aramis gasps out, squirms and whines, lets Porthos start to thrust into him, lets Porthos use him in earnest, closes his eyes with the sheer force of not wanting to come so soon, knowing that watching him will push him over the edge. 

“You love to watch me, don’t you?” Porthos whispers out, leaning down so that his breath is a low murmur meant only for Aramis, as if there could be anyone else around. “Open your eyes – I know how you can never keep your eyes off me.”

“Never,” Aramis agrees, and moans out, rocking his hips down to meet Porthos’ thrusts. “You’re so strong – you’re so _strong._ ” 

“That whelp tonight didn’t stand a chance, did he?” 

“Never,” Aramis agrees again, breathless. “You didn’t even have to try – you weren’t even trying, but you still threw him like he was nothing.” 

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, hands lifting to curl around his neck, thumbs pressing to either side of his windpipe, his fingers cupping the back of his neck and forcing his head up. They kiss, sloppy and distracted, and Porthos presses his thumbs down against his neck to choke the air from him again. “Aramis,” he whispers again, quieter still – and he’s so strong, so strong and so deadly and yet Aramis only whines out his desire, doesn’t doubt that he’s safe. “You feel good.”

The stinging pain of Porthos’ thumbs against his throat sends sparks to the corners of his vision when he opens his eyes and looks at Porthos. Porthos fucks hard into him and shifts so that their foreheads press together. Porthos is relentless, a driving force that leaves Aramis wheezing and squirming with his desire – and he can’t breathe for it all, watching him, lips parted, eyes heavy with desire. He loves Porthos like this – strong and deadly, unstoppable, and yet using all that strength for Aramis. 

When Porthos does come, it’s after a few more heavy thrusts, hands around his neck tightening so that Aramis can’t breathe at all – he gasps out wordlessly as he feels Porthos shift harder, faster against him – feels him coming inside of him, hot and full and he watches as Porthos shudders through his aftershocks, the nails of his fingers digging into his skin. 

That’s what sends him over the edge, ultimately – the feeling of nails dragging against his throat, one nail biting into the skin of his jaw. He clenches his eyes shut and gasps out, tries to beg around the hands at his neck, knows he’s incoherent and _begging_ and Porthos grinds down against him, drops one hand from his neck to scrape nails down his chest and curl around his cock, stroking him through it as he comes. Aramis rides it out as best he can, sobbing out in pleasure, rocking his hips up into the hand and down against the softening cock inside of him. He’s spread open and bent in two, he’s breathless and used, spent, and it feels so good, too damn good. Tears prick at the edges of his eyes and he sobs out praise to Porthos as he comes across his stomach, ropes of sticky white come between them. 

Then Porthos’ hands are off of him, bracing down against the bed instead and kissing him and kissing him. They kiss for long minutes stretched out and Aramis’ head is swimming with lack of air and the heaviness of his own orgasm, spent and aching in the aftermath. 

When he can finally breathe properly again, when he can finally catch his voice enough to speak, he just sighs out his name and curls his arms around Porthos, tugging him down to press up sticky and messy against him. He laughs a little and murmurs his name a few more times, grins around Porthos’ answering sighs. 

They just keep kissing until even that feels like an iron weight pulling him down into a boneless, sated sleepiness. 

“Good?” Porthos asks, and he’s grinning in that way that means he knows the answer.

“Good Lord,” Aramis sighs out, and his voice is dripping with a soreness that leaves his voice throaty and graveled out. “I _love_ brawls.” 

Porthos’ laugh is light and airy in comparison to the rest of the night’s activities, and when he cleans him up and holds him for the rest of the night, it is only with utter gentleness. Aramis curls up next to him, drapes over him, and sleeps with his cheek pressed to his shoulder, breathing him in.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
